


You Are the Taste of Something Sweet

by CitrusVanille



Series: Barefoot in the Kitchen [2]
Category: McFly
Genre: Breakfast, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-03
Updated: 2009-05-03
Packaged: 2018-12-02 05:40:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11502906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CitrusVanille/pseuds/CitrusVanille
Summary: Tom is stirring something on the stove, wearing an unfamiliar apron - it's pink and flowery and hasruffles- over his boxers, bare feet tapping in time as he sings along to the Beatles on the radio.





	You Are the Taste of Something Sweet

When Harry pushes the door to Tom’s house open, he is pleasantly assaulted by a variety of aromas. He follows his nose to the kitchen and has to forcibly restrain himself from laughing. Tom is stirring something on the stove, wearing an unfamiliar apron – it’s pink and flowery and has _ruffles_ – over his boxers, bare feet tapping in time as he sings along to the Beatles on the radio.

“Honey, I’m home,” Harry quips, unable to help it.

Tom half-turns, lifting both eyebrows. “You don’t live here,” he reminds Harry. “And many more remarks like that and you never will.”

Harry laughs outright at that, feeling the little fizz of pleasure that runs through him when Tom rolls his eyes and turns back to the stove clearly fighting a grin.

“Smells fantastic,” Harry says, crossing the room to put his hands on Tom’s hips and rest his chin on Tom’s shoulder. “What’re you making?”

“Food.” Tom nudges Harry’s head with his own. He feels a little tense against Harry, but doesn’t push him away.

Harry laughs again, turns slightly to nip at Tom’s earlobe, wonders if something’s wrong or if Tom’s just early-morning grumpy. “I figured as much. Give me some credit.”

“You’re early,” Tom informs him. “Which is rude. You can just wait until the others get here to find out what I’m making.” There’s an edge to his voice, but Harry’s pretty sure now it’s mostly the hour and the concentration necessary to cook so early.

“Come on,” Harry murmurs, lips against the skin of Tom’s neck, fingertips lightly stroking Tom’s sides under the apron, hopes he can get Tom to relax. “I’m special.”

Tom snorts and pulls away. “Stop that,” he says. “I’m cooking.”

Harry sighs, takes a few steps back, and stifles the urge to put his hands in his pockets and rock a little on his feet. He’s not actually in school anymore, and he’s not being scolded by a teacher or a parent. If Tom wants to be grumpy, he can be grumpy. “Can I help?” he offers instead, feels that’s a safe way to go.

Tom sniffs, but it’s a mollified sound – Harry gives himself a mental pat on the back, because that’s definitely a step in the right direction – and holds out his spoon. “Stir that,” he says, pointing to the pot on the front burner. “Don’t let it boil over. I’m getting dressed.”

Harry bites his lip to avoid telling Tom not to bother – Tom clearly isn’t in the mood – and does as commanded, peering into the pot curiously as Tom vanishes through the door. Harry’s not really sure what he’s stirring, but it’s dark and smooth and smells amazing.

It seems to be syrup of some kind, he thinks, twirling the spoon a little to test the consistency. He’s pretty sure Tom’s mum has made something similar that could be used to dip fruit in or to put on waffles – molasses and honey and something else. Sticky and sweet and tooth-rottingly delicious.

Tom is back within a few minutes, insane apron now tied over his jeans and a tee-shirt. “Thanks,” he says, retrieving the spoon. He dips up a bit from the pot and blows on it to cool if off before tasting it, testing it first with just the tip of his tongue before slipping the bowl of the spoon past his lips, eyes sliding closed as he hums softly, pleased, but considering.

Harry swallows hard, watching. He kind of hates the spoon.

“That’s done,” Tom says, voice low like he’s talking to himself, and turns the burner off, moving the pot to the back of the stove. The oven starts beeping and Tom turns the timer off, peering inside and slamming the door shut before Harry can see in.

The sound of a door opening and a burst of laughter comes from the hallway.

“It’s us!” Danny’s voice calls, and a moment later he and Dougie appear in the doorway. There’s a split second of silence, then they collapse against each other, laughing.

“The little wife been hard at work slaving over a hot oven?” Dougie asks once he’s gotten himself under control.

Harry can’t swallow his own laughter, despite the _thwack_ Tom delivers to the back of his head. The towel Tom throws catches Dougie in the face, which only makes Danny and Harry laugh harder.

“Shut up, you,” Tom growls at all of them, but Harry can see the twitch of his lips, the dimple clear in his cheek, that betrays the smile he’s trying to hide. “Make yourselves useful,” Tom gestures at the cabinets that hold the plates as he goes to the refrigerator and pulls out a bowl of fruit salad.

Harry hands off the plates to Danny, and snags a strawberry as he passes, silverware in one hand.

“Don’t touch,” Tom snaps, putting the bowl down on the counter and opening the oven. He pulls out a plate of waffles and pancakes, then turns to the pot on the stove top, giving it another stir. Harry reaches for another strawberry. Tom smacks him hard across the knuckles with his spoon. “I said don’t touch.”

“Ow!” Harry puts his abused knuckles in his mouth, and flips Danny and Dougie off with his other hand as they crack up again. “Watch it, or you two can eat breakfast somewhere else,” Harry warns around his knuckles.

“Not your house,” Danny tells him smugly, and Harry catches Tom’s smirk out of the corner of his eye.

“Fuck off,” Harry tells him, but it’s not particularly vicious.

Dougie drops his head onto his arms on the table, shoulders shaking, the occasional squeak of muffled laughter breaking through.

“I think we broke Dougie,” Danny says, and then he’s laughing again, too.

 _Really_ , Harry thinks, feeling a bit peeved, _it’s not all that funny._

But then Tom drags his fingers across Harry’s back, pressing lightly against his spine as he walks past, fruit bowl in one hand, and Harry’s less bothered by all of it.

“Let’s eat,” Tom says, and takes the seat next to Dougie, who surfaces at the promise of food.

Harry takes the seat on Tom’s other side, resists the temptation to kick Danny’s chair away as he goes to sit in it, taps his foot against Tom’s ankle instead. Tom rolls his eyes, but his dimple is showing again, and he taps back. Harry grins as he reaches for the plate of pancakes, glad Tom’s apparently gotten over his earlier mood, and wonders how fast they can eat and how soon he can kick Dougie and Danny out of the house.

**END**


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